Into Darkness
by hobgoblin123
Summary: After receiving the bad tidings that Tarrant's family was killed (except his heir Eric, of course) and he himself is missing, King Gannon tries to solve the mystery. And finds more than he has bargained for in the end... Sequel to 'Not of this world'.
1. Chapter 1

**Into darkness  
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Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended

Credits: The title was borrowed from the latest Star Trek movie (2013). The quote below, on the other hand, is from the bible (version: Aramaic bible in plain English), 1 Peter, 1:24.

Warnings: As Tarrant has already undergone his transformation when the story sets in, there won't be explicit slash for a change. Be prepared for a fair amount of violence and gore, though, mostly in the 2nd chapter.

A/N 1: You'll notice that Gannon switches between different tenses when talking about Gerald. As he doesn't know whether his lover is still alive or not, this is intended, so please don't tell me off for it...;-).

A/N 2: Ah, the animals on Erna. In the case of the rats and the toad, I opted for sticking to the Earth version instead of adding a 'nu', 'not', 'un' or whatever. After all, Ms Friedman herself used the plain 'wolf' for Amoril's pets, so I might be forgiven.

A/N 3: Considering the meagre reading stats for 'Not of this world' on AO3, most of you don't seem to be very keen on reading something about the relationship between King Gannon and Tarrant. But considering that there's next to no canon with the exception of Gerald being one of the courtiers of the very king who founded the Order of the Golden Flame and outlawed private sorcery, continuing to create my own Gannon/Gerald-verse was just too tempting to resist. And with Halloween just around the corner, I wanted to write something dark. But rest assured, ye fans of the classical Tarrant/Vryce pairing. If everything goes well, there will be a real Halloween story centering on them.

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_**Merentha Castle, October 293 A.S.**_

"Because all flesh is grass and all its beauty as the blossom of the field; the grass withers and the blossom fades…"

Staring bleakly at the open grave at his feet, King Gannon payed no attention whatsoever to either the words of the priest holding the funeral service or the desperate sobs of the eleven-year-old who had lost his entire family. Since he had received the terrible news that that Almea Tarrant and her two younger children had been brutally slaughtered and her husband was nowhere to be found two days ago, he was feeling as dead inside as the three corpses in the flower-bedecked coffins nearby.

As soon as the exhausted messenger wearing the black and blue livery of the Neocount's household had left him for a well-deserved refreshment and a nap in subsequent order, he had summoned his personal bodyguards and set off for Merentha Castle a mere two hours later. Eager to interrogate eventual eyewitnesses about what had come to pass, his panicked race to the venue of the crime had very nearly ruined their unhorses. But very much to his dismay, he still wasn't much the wiser now for all his inquiries.

According to the groom who had taken care of Almea's mare after her return from a visit to the Bellamy family, she had been slightly taken aback by the unexpected absence of her children. Eager to comfort her, he had told her that to the best of his knowledge Tory and little Alix were belowground with their father. Then Marsha Galbraith, an elderly servant, had delivered a message from her spouse to the young woman, whereupon she had apparently descended into the vaults in order to join them. So far, so good. But sadly, this had been the last time one of the attendants had ever seen a member of the doomed family alive.

For quite a while, nobody had really wondered about their whereabouts. After all, it was well-known that their master was wont to spend hours on end in his library and the adjacent workroom where he studied his books and his considerable collection of Earth artifacts. But when dinner time had come and gone and there was still no sign of the neocomital family, the domestics had begun to worry. Merentha Castle was heavily Warded, and no however high order demon had ever managed to gain entrance. But there was a first time for everything, and the colonists on Erna had learned the hard way hundreds of years ago that there was no absolute protection against the faeborn other than the life-giving light of the sun.

By now, true night had been reigning supreme outside, and none of them had been altogether keen on daring to advance to their master's lightless subterranean realm, even more so with regard to the fact that the adept had strictly forbidden them to enter his storeroom of knowledge without his express consent. They had lost valuable time while arguments had flown and the discussion had seesawed. But eventually, the majordomo had agreed to search for the missing people, taking two heavily armed guards with him for protection.

Very much to Gannon's dismay, neither Mes Galbraith who had left to live with her daughter and son-in-law right after sunrise nor the guards could be questioned anymore. The latter two had been found in a remote corner of the castle grounds the following noon, dead as a door nail and without an ounce of blood left in their bodies, a rather unsettling occurrence not exactly helpful in calming already frayed tempers, to put it mildly. But Tom O' Riordan, the only surviving member of the search party, had still been at his disposal.

Since his doomed companions had carried him back upstairs with united forces, the majordomo hadn't been able to leave his bedstead other for short visits to the privy. Whatever the man in his mid-fifties had seen down in the vaults had caused his hair to turn from salt and pepper into snowy white literally overnight, and he still looked pale and drawn. His king in the flesh visiting him in his modest chamber had clearly flustered him, and for a few minutes he hadn't been capable of grinding out anything but apologies for welcoming him in a dressing gown and similar nullities Gannon hadn't been truly interested in. As for him, as long as O' Riordan could help to uncover the truth hidden behind a veil of ignorance and suspicion, he wouldn't have minded if the man had spilled the beans absolutely stark naked and standing on his head.

Being worried sick about his lover, he had felt sorely tempted to shake the answers he needed out of his stammering vis-à-vis. But in spite of his impatience, he had forced a benevolent smile on his face and had assured the majordomo that there was no reason to fret about the lack of etiquette under the dire circumstances. Thank goodness his gentle approach had born fruit. Heartened by his kind words, the man had finally plucked courage and told him about the grisly discovery they had made deep down in the bowels of the keep.

Against expectations, the library and the workroom had been utterly deserted. But very much to their astonishment, a hidden door in the back wall had stood slightly ajar, giving access to a small cavern none of them had ever entered before. An obstacle in form of a handrail-less stone bridge spanning a seemingly bottomless abyss had brought their advance to a temporary halt, and terrified to cross it without at least securing themselves by a rope, they had discussed whether to go on or to return to more hospital surroundings without having achieved anything. But the need to learn what had become of their lordship had driven them on, and they had crawled over it with their eyes firmly locked on the just about a foot wide stony path in front of them.

The three of them had heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief when the bridge had finally ended in a somewhat more spacious ledge of rock. Stepping through an archway so narrow that the bigger one of the guards had had to squeeze through sidewards, they had entered another cavern just to encounter a veritable horror scenario worse than anything they had imagined in their gravest concerns.

Tory and Alix had lain huddled against the far wall, their faces contorted in agony even in death. But it had been the sight of Almea Tarrant, her stiffening limbs still chained to the rough stone slab dominating the chamber, which had made them wish that they hadn't had dinner that night.

"You can't imagine what her murderer did to our beloved Neocountess," O' Riordan had whispered, barely able to force the words out between his chattering teeth. "He cut her open, pulled out her entrails. Her organs were right there on the slab, neatly arranged. And her lovely face, frozen to a mask of pain and terror unlike anything I've ever seen before... it will haunt me to my dying day."

Hot tears running down his chalky-white cheeks, the majordomo had buried his face in his hands. "Some people allege that the Neocount became insane," he had continued after regaining the capacity for coherent speech. "That he tortured his family to death and went straight to hell as a punishment for his deeds. They should be ashamed. He was... is such a kind master. A good person. He would never do anything like this. And what for? Everybody knows that he loved his wife and children. I don't care what those scandalmongers say. May the Lord in His wisdom send his Excellency back to us. I pray for his safe return every day."

Grateful that there was at least one living soul who wasn't inclined to condemn the adept outright other than himself, Gannon was bound and determined to settle a considerably annuity on Tom O' Riordan. The poor man certainly deserved it for his courage and his complete confidence in a human being suspected of such a ghastly crime. If he could only share the domestic's utter conviction that Gerald really didn't have anything to do with the killings!

Very much against his will, his thoughts once again steered in a direction he would have rather avoided. But as much as he wished otherwise, there was no denying that Tarrant had changed after his nearly fatal heart attack in spring, and not for the better. Learning that his lover had collapsed and it was to be feared that he wouldn't pull through, he had dropped everything and rushed to his side. To hell with state business when the man who was meaning the world to him needed his support!

Although the crisis had already passed on his arrival, he had been aghast at Gerald's sorry sight. For as long as he had known him, the adept had never had an ounce of fat on his lean body. Being a paragon of temperance, he yet belonged to the lucky few who could theoretically tuck in to their heart's content without plumping out. But during the few weeks since their last encounter, he had evidently crossed the fine line between slenderness and emaciation.

With his delicate bones standing out in stark relief under the almost translucent skin and dark circles shadowing his eyes like bruises, he had looked so frail and sickly that Gannon had feared for his life despite the healers' reassurances that his condition was stable for the time being. But fate had held an even more profound shock in store for him. Instead of being delighted at his sick bed visit, the convalescent had feigned fatigue and dismissed him with a few trite phrases utterly uncalled-for in dealing with a king, let alone when said king had been sharing one's bed for nigh to fifteen years.

At first, he had thought that the adept's damned pride was standing between them like an impenetrable wall built from sheer glacier ice. As ridiculous at it was after all the shit they had been through together, he wouldn't have put it beyond him. In fact, if he had had to draw up a list of the ills Gerald abhorred more than anything else, helplessness would have certainly gotten top billing, a not altogether surprising fact considering certain wretched events in his less than happy childhood. But this couldn't have been the reason for the soul-chilling cold in the grey eyes so eerily reminiscent of the first icy breath of winter, for the darkness lurking just beneath the pleasant facade which had sent a cold shiver down his spine each and every time he had beheld those wan but still strikingly beautiful features. May the god of their faith forfend that his lover's involvement in the slaughtering of his family was more than malicious gossip!

Sighing inwardly, the king let his gaze wander over the funeral party. If Gerald didn't turn up soon alive and his right mind, he would have to decide on the future of the Neocounty of Merentha. Whether the adept was guilty or not, there was no chance in hell that he would rob Eric of the title he had created for his father. But it went without saying that an eleven-year-old boy who was half-crazed with grief couldn't take up the reigns. Hence, a trustworthy regent had to rule in his stead until the day the lad finally came of age. For obvious reasons, choosing one of Tarrant's brothers was out of the question. He'd rather take the responsibility himself than letting the Neocounty fall into their greedy clutches. If they ever came into power, Eric would doubtlessly find himself in a dungeon within a week, never to be seen again.

To make matters worse, new employees for the household had to be found as well. A mere four days had passed since disaster had struck, and already about half of the servants had sought refuge in flight, leaving the young Neocount-to-be high and dry. _The rats are leaving the sinking ship, _Gannon thought furiously_._ But if he was honest to himself, he really couldn't hold it against them, especially not considering that the guards weren't the only victims of the mysterious killer prowling around in the night. If the rumours were to be believed, at least seven citizens of the seaport Merentha and the nearby villages had died a horrific death since Gerald's disappearance. Their throats had been ripped out so viciously that the heads had almost been severed from the bodies, and as in the case of the two members of the search party, their veins hadn't contained a single drop of blood anymore. _Vampire_, the people already whispered behind closed doors, and who could be more prone to turning into a bloodsucking fiend after his death than a threefold murderer of his own kin?

Lost in his musings, he had missed that the priest had ended his sermon quite a while ago and the coffins had been already lowered into the grave. Now the mourners were filing past it, offering commiserations to the boy whose entire world had gone to pieces in one single night. Calling himself three times a fool for his mental absence, he hastened to fall into line, but was stopped dead in his tracks by the voice he wanted to hear least of all. "Your Highness! I'd like to have a word with you."

_Go to hell and have a word with the Devil, you bastard_, King Gannon thought with no small amount of malice, but knew better than to pick a quarrel at a funeral. At least for now. Only the One God knew what would happen if the hypocrite who had very likely sowed the seeds for this catastrophe provoked him beyond the limits of his endurance.

Wrapping the dignity of his office around him like an invisible mantle, he straightened to his full height and gazed haughtily down on his squat nemesis who never failed to remind him of a particularly repulsive toad. "I'd very much appreciate if you could make it short, Your Holiness," he answered brusquely. "It's been a long day, and I'm tired."

"Of course, of course. What a shock it must have been for you to learn about the terrible fall of your favourite courtier. Knight of the Realm, Neocount of Merentha, and now this. What a pity you wasted your favours on such an unworthy person."

His temper close to boiling point, Gannon started to count from hundred backwards, but it was to no avail. "Seems that I'm not the only one who lavished honours on Gerald," he choked out between gritted teeth. "If I remember correctly, it was you yourself who made him premier of the Order of the Golden Flame a mere three years ago."

"Alas! He deceived us all, I suppose. Who would have thought that an ostensibly pious man like him could betray everything he professed to believe in? But he was always an outsider, wasn't he? A freak of nature with strange, ungodly powers. Instead of bowing to the orders of his superiors, he stubbornly refused to forsake his evil witchery, and look where his heresy has gotten him. Without a doubt, he's already roasting in hell, paying for his despicable deeds for all eternity."

The very picture of smug self-satisfaction, the head of the Church of Human Unification on Erna rubbed his hands, and Gannon felt a shudder of visceral revulsion running through his body. "May I remind you that nobody knows what has truly come to pass, Your Holiness? Like everybody else in my kingdom, Gerald has the right to be presumed innocent until proved guilty. I'd be very much obliged if you could observe the law."

The Patriarch stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Of course he's guilty. Who do you think vivisected his wife and their common children? Don't give me that fairy tale about a faeborn intruder like the dimwit up in his attic room. Riordan or whatever his name is. Went straight onto his knees and begged me to reconsider my verdict, the old fool. No, no, if there was truly a demonling involved in the killings, he did your treasured friend's bidding. And anyway, the Church is above mundane laws. I've already given orders that Gerald Tarrant's name is to be stricken from the books. Soon, it will fall into oblivion, and within a human life span or two, none but a few carefully chosen insiders will know that the Prophet of the Law was no other than the accursed Neocount of Merentha."

Blazing with anger, Gannon stepped closer, deliberately invading his opponent's personal space. "How can you dare, you devious son of a bitch?" he growled. "The dream you dream is his! You owe him everything! Without Gerald writing more than half of your bible and capturing people's imagination, not to mention risking his neck by fighting your wars for you, you would have sunk into obscurity long ago. And let me tell you one thing: just in case you're right and he did what you're accusing him of, it would have never happened if you hadn't cornered him like game, threatening to condemn him outright for something completely out of his control. He is - or was - an adept, for God's sake! What you call his 'evil witchery' is as natural to him as breathing. It was you and the likes of you who drove him into darkness with your doctrines of demonic possession and the terrors of hell."

"That's outrageous! How can you suggest that I'm to blame for the abysmal fall of your leman? Because that's what he was, wasn't he? Even for a ruler it's a cardinal sin to lay with another man, Your Majesty. And let's not forget that if I'm right, both of you are adulterers, another besetting sin in the eyes of God. So maybe you should wish him good riddance and repent your..."

"Shut up!" The blood pounding in his ears, Gannon barely recognized his own voice. "As you're so very keen on sticking your nose into matters none of your business: Yes, Gerald was my lover. For many years. I'm sick and tired of denying it. But don't you ever again suggest that I should be ashamed of our relationship. I'm damn proud that he picked me of all people. He was one of a kind, and you aren't even worthy to licks his boots."

The Patriarch's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Am I not? That's not the way to talk to the head of the Church of Unification, King Gannon. But we can return to your disrespect for me later. For now, I can't help wondering whether you're somehow, how shall I put it politely, involved in the disposal of an expendable spouse. Perhaps we should take care that Queen Merissa won't suffer a similar fate."

This was the last straw. Naturally, he couldn't see his own face. But considering his antagonist's reaction, bloody murder must have been written all over it in fiery letters. Blanching, the Patriarch staggered backwards, but he hadn't come farther than a few steps when Gannon descended on him like a deadly bird of prey, his nails digging deeply into well-upholstered shoulders. "You disgusting little toad," he growled viciously. "At your orders, I outlawed private sorcery and threw the man I love to the wolves in the process. He talked me into it, or I would have never agreed to it. For this alone, I will never forgive you, nor will I forgive myself for consenting to this act of utter madness. You have my word that I'm going to support Gerald's most treasured creation for as long as I live. For his sake, not for yours or the church's. But never ever approach me again other than on state occasions when tolerating your loathsome presence is unavoidable, or I'll declare my promise null and void. And now stop croaking and be gone, or the gardener will have to dig another grave in the morning!"

After the Patriarch had pivoted on his heels with astounding agility and fled his presence as if the Unnamed were after him, Gannon drew a deep breath to calm himself and looked around. Dusk had already fallen, and he was the last mourner in the very same corner of the premises where the bodies of the hapless guards had been found three days ago. Shortly after his heart attack, the Neocount of Merentha had ordered the construction of a family mausoleum, but the imposing white numarble building hadn't been finished yet when fate had struck the terrible blow. As soon as it was completed, he would see to it personally that the mortal remains of Tarrant's family would be solemnly transferred to their somewhat more dignified final resting place. If no miracle happened, this might very well represent the last service he could ever render the man who had made his life worth living for so many years.

A chill wind had sprung up, and big raindrops were starting to fall as if the skies were crying the tears he had been denying himself so far. Shivering, King Gannon pulled his fur-trimmed cloak tighter around his sturdy frame. The world was an empty, desolate place without Gerald at his side. Of course, they had been separated before, for example when the adept had led his troops into battle or had spent a longer period of time on his estates. But there had always been the prospect of a passionate reunion. Now he very much doubted that his lover would ever lay in his arms again, gracing him with that special smile only reserved for him.

All at once, the temperature seemed to drop by a further five degrees at the very least, and he held his breath, all his senses on the alert. Admittedly, it was autumn, and the better part of the trees had already lost their leaves. But the sudden icy cold threatening to freeze the marrow in his bones couldn't have a natural cause.

Warily, Gannon eyed his surroundings, his left hand creeping towards the hilt of his sword. Up to now, the adept's wards had hold in terms of protecting the above-ground rooms of the keep, suggesting that he was still alive against all odds. But this didn't change the fact that if Tarrant was innocent, someone - or something - else had to have committed the murders. Perhaps a particularly nasty demonling was still at large, roaming the castle grounds and the surrounding area in his insatiable hunger for sustenance of the human kind.

For the first time since he had snapped out of his fruitless deliberations, he noticed that his personal guards weren't within sight, a rather disconcerting discovery. What the heck had possessed them leave him to his own devices? But he would think of a fitting punishment for neglecting their duty in such an appalling fashion later. For now, he was much too occupied with pricking up his ears and searching the shadows for whatever supernatural threat that might have it in for him. No faeborn demon jumped at him with bared fangs and claws, and other than for the wind singing his eternal song and the gentle drip-drip of the rain the night was utterly quiet. But he knew, knew with absolute certainty based on a sense much more ancient than seeing or hearing, that he wasn't alone anymore.

The main entrance to the brightly-lit castle wherein the guests would be about sitting down at the dining table in order to take the funeral banquet by now was less than a hundred yards away, but it could as well have been a thousand miles. Try as he might, Gannon couldn't bring his paralyzed limbs to move. It wasn't just fear. In his younger days, he had come face to face with the grim reaper on more occasions than he actually cared to count, although he was just beginning to realize that there might be fates worse than mere death at the hands of one's human enemies. The powerful will of an entity malevolent beyond mortal reckoning rooted him to the spot as securely as if he were chained up with the very same iron manacles which had bound Almea Tarrant even in death.

Squinting, he thought he could see a hint of movement in the grove of towering alteroak trees nearby that Gerald had saved from being logged during the construction of his family seat and had ordered them to be incorporated into the castle grounds instead. At the very next moment, a blast of air parted their branches, allowing him a short glimpse of flowing robes fluttering in the night wind and unearthly silver eyes glittering in a bone white face. The shock broke whatever spell had been put on him and he started to run, not into the direction of the security providing keep but towards the place where all his hopes were laying. Yelling the adept's name, he crashed through the undergrowth without giving a damn for the integrity of his skin until he ground to a halt in the small clearing where he had believed to see his lover. But nobody answered his desperate calls. Who- or whatever had been waiting for him out there in the darkness was already gone, leaving just a blood-stained piece of midnight blue silk behind.

With trembling fingers Gannon pulled the scrap from the pointed twig whereon it was being impaled and brought it closer to his face. His nostrils flared with revulsion at the coppery stench emanating from it. But it was the so very faint whiff of something altogether different mingling with it that very nearly sent him into a fainting fit: Gerald's unique scent he would have recognized among a million others.

"Your Majesty? Your Majesty, where are you?"

Shaken to the core, he stuffed the treacherous corpus delicti into his waistcoat pocket without thinking twice and stepped into the open. "I'm right here," he shouted hoarsely. "By the old alteroaks. I just needed some peace and quiet for a while."

At the very next moment, Jonathan Moffat, the sturdy captain of his guard, trotted into view. "Thank the gods you're alright," the man puffed all aflutter, his weather-beaten face flushed with embarrassment. "I don't understand how it could happen, but we were damn sure that you were with us. It wasn't until your valet asked us about your whereabouts that we realized you were missing. Forgive us, my Lord. I don't know what has come over us."

_Be grateful for your ignorance, Moffat_, Gannon thought miserably. The memory of those flashing quicksilver eyes so utterly alien to the mortal plane still made his blood run cold with dread. For a fleeting second, he contemplated summoning a posse. After all, it was very well possible that the apparition hiding in the grove had indeed been Gerald in flesh and blood, alive but insane after being forced to witness what had been done to his family. If, on the other hand, it had been the bloodsucking demon haunting the night lately, the creature had to be wiped off the face of the planet before it could cause further havoc. But a strange sense of foreboding closed his mouth. After a last valedictory glance at the darkness under the trees, he turned round and headed back towards the world of the living.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Warning: a fair amount of angst on Gannon's part and descriptions of violence (Gerald at his worst)

Credits: the stuff about not fearing the terror of the night and the pestilence that stalks in darkness is from the Bible, Psalm 91:6. I can't quite tell who first called Jaggonath a 'New Jerusalem', but I think it wasn't in a fanfic but in a review of the Coldfire Trilogy. The mentioned song is the famous 'Jerusalem' by Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry who set a poem by William Blake to music. It's the official hymn of the British Women's Institute, the unofficial national anthem of England and one of my all time favourites. The latter part of this chapter (Tarrant's brilliant brains being turned into mush in the wake of his transformation) was influenced by 'A Demon's Gift' by Linaerys (?), a gorgeous story that kind of scared the shit out of me while reading it, lol. 'The woods are lovely, dark and deep' is a line from the poem 'Stopping by woods on a snowy evening' by Robert Frost. And before I forget to mention it, the idea of a vampire 'living beyond the grace of God' was taken from Coppola's 'Bram Stoker's Dracula (quote below). Phew, I hope I haven't forgotten anything of importance...

A/N 1: Sorry for repeatedly mentioning events of Gerald's and Gannon's shared past which none of you has ever heard of. They are part of another story of mine about the way they met, became lovers and so on and so forth. Hopefully, one fine day I can find the time to write the stuff down. But certainly not this year, alas. Yuletide Treasure is just around the corner, not to mention my Halloween and Christmas fics and my ongoing projects. Sigh!

A/N 2: Greetings to Silvereyedbitch, Black Dragon's Ghost, Shadowy Star, Herdcat (a thousand thanks for your kind review; and yes, I'm definitely planning on writing more Gerald/Gannon stuff) and Carpatian Lady! I'm insanely grateful for your feedback, your support and generally for you ladies just being somewhere out there.

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She lives beyond the grace of God, a wanderer in the outer darkness (Abraham Van Helsing about Lucy Westenra)

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**_Jaggonath Castle, four and a half years later_**

Muttering a vicious curse under his breath, Gannon shifted the papers boring the hell out of him to a far corner of his desk. Petitions, verdicts, requests for a favour. The whole shebang all over again. Not to mention that he still had to give his blessings to the plans for the celebration of his silver wedding anniversary. If he ever had the nerve to read them in the first place. As for him, there was no reason to celebrate a marriage that had become a farce years ago. A wasteland as barren as their marital bed. But if he was honest to himself, he couldn't accuse his queen of her infertility. Even as newly-weds, her womb hadn't been a field he had plowed with great enthusiasm, to put it mildly.

Too restless to sit still any longer, he got up and walked over to the window. Below the castle hill, the city of Jaggonath was sprawling, a veritable ocean of light points so eerily reminiscent of the star-studded sky denied to them since Ian Casca had sacrificed the technological achievements which had carried their forefathers across space and time. When Gerald had suggested building his permanent royal seat in the vicinity of a conglomerate of miserable shacks without navigable waters in convenient reach, he hadn't thought much of it at first. Seth and Kale had had roughly the same number of inhabitants at that time, but had the advantage of being located along the coastline. But they were lacking an attraction that had doubtlessly tipped the scales in favour of Jaggonath in the eyes of his lover: the oldest church of their faith on their new home planet, currently being rebuilt into an imposing cathedral.

The beginning had been difficult, but in the end the adept's plans to create a kind of New Jerusalem as in one of the ancient hymns people still loved to sing had born fruit. Drawn by the promise of work and the hypothetical safety in numbers alike, more and more settlers had begun to flock to town until new suburbs seemed to spring up like mushrooms every other day. But maybe this shouldn't have come as quite a surprise. He still had to see the day Gerald Tarrant's brilliant brain miscalculated, and as matters stood, said day in all probability now would never come.

Gannon heaved a sigh from the bottom of his soul. Throughout his adult life, he had never been prone to crying over spilled milk or sinking into the depths of depression no matter how dire the circumstances. A man did what he had to do and molded the world to his liking, and if someone pissed on his parade, he stood up and came back stronger than before. Plain and simple. Only during the last years he had realized how much of his strength he had owed to the universal genius at his side. Scholar, warrior, writer of both secular and religious books, master-builder, sorcerer and figurehead of their faith, just to mention a few of the scopes the most fascinating human being he had ever encountered had excelled in. Since the adept's still unaccounted for disappearance, his life had become a series of dreary days and lonely nights, nights wherein he still woke up with his lover's name on his lips, his hands groping for a tall, lean frame which would never lie at his side again. Outside, spring was just around the corner. The birds were already chirping in the trees, and the first vernal flowers were sticking their heads out in between the last patches of snow. But in his own fallible human heart eternal winter was reigning supreme.

At first, he had tried to convince himself that Gerald would turn up again one fine day, alive and unharmed. Due to his stellar climbing up the food chain, he had alienated many people who begrudged him his success. Maybe a group of hired assassins had invaded Merentha Castle through a secret passage on that fateful night nigh to five years ago, had killed his family and abducted him for whatever sinister purpose. But there hadn't been a single sign of life ever since, no ransom demand, no claim of responsibility, simply nothing whatsoever to hint at his survival. No, the adept had to be dead. If there truly had been a bunch of killers involved, intent on framing him for a crime he hadn't committed, they had very likely disposed of his body at the next opportunity. Perhaps they had buried it somewhere in the woods or had dumped it into the ocean, never to be found again. What he had seen - or believed to see - hiding under the alteroak trees on the night of Almea Tarrant's burial had to be an outgrowth of his imagination, a faeborn chimaera created by his hopes and fears if it hadn't been a hallucination outright. Sometimes, in the deep of night, he prayed that this had been the case. The alternatives, the dismal thoughts plaguing him when he was laying wide awake once again, staring at the ceiling with burning eyes, they were too ghastly to contemplate.

For what felt like the umpteenth time, Gannon wished that he would have certainty of what had happened to his lover. If he had to face Gerald's corpse one day, or what was left of it by then, it would be a terrible blow. But at least there would be a grave to mourn at his death, and the comforting knowledge that the immortal soul of the man he had loved more than anything else in his entire life was far beyond any harm.

Tearing up very much against his will, he buried his face in his hands. At the very next moment, the door to his study was torn open, and his valet stumbled over the threshold, a candlestick in his shaking hand. "Baronet Marshall is dead, my Lord," the old man blurted out all in a flutter. "Captain Moffat heard it from his sister who works for a family which..."

"WHAT?" Suddenly torn from his already unpleasant musings just to be confronted with another piece of Job's news, he could hardly believe his ears. "Kindly repeat this for me, Arthur."

"Raynor Marshall is dead. Seems he went out in the deep of night, tried to climb over the fence surrounding his estate and impaled himself on a spike. Quite a strange way to make your exit if you ask me. Especially with regard to the fact that he used to be so very afraid of going outside after dark."

Aghast, Gannon stared at the bearer of the bad tidings. The world surely wouldn't be poorer without the bastard who had made his youngest brother's childhood a living hell. When Gerald had confessed the whole extent of what his siblings had done to him, he had come an inch short of ridding Erna of their taint for good himself, as he had done later in the case of their brutish father. Even after all these years, he didn't regret his deed. Quite the contrary. Sometimes, he couldn't help but wishing that God would bring the son of a bitch back to life just that he could kill him all over again.

But be that as it may, something certainly was uncanny about this fatality. Eight brothers, and all had met a more or less violent death within the time span of roundabout fifty months. Jeremias Marshall, lying at the bottom of a flight of stairs with a broken neck. Benjamin Marshall, trampled to death by his favourite unhorse in the small hours of an icy winter night. Only God knew what kind of business he had had in the stables at the time. Seamus Marshall who had been found in his bed without a visible wound on his body for a change, but his face contorted in such a blood-curdling grimace of sheer, unadulterated horror that his servants swore they would have nightmares about it for the remainder of their days. The list went on and on. The notion that every single one of them had died at a time when Erna's central star had sunk beneath the horizon and darkness had spread her velvet cloak over the lands sent a cold shiver down the king's spine. As much as he wished otherwise, this couldn't be a mere coincidence anymore. Something nocturnal and very, very vindictive seemed to have it in for the male members of the Marshall clan.

"May I ask what you're planning to do about it?"

The familiar voice of his long-serving valet brought Gannon back to the here and now. 'Do about it?' Well, arriving after the funeral just to dance a jig on the freshly filled up grave sounded a rather tempting idea. But of course, this kind of behaviour would be utterly unbefitting a king. Or any other halfway normal human being, for that matter. "Send for my scribe, Arthur," he said after a while. "He can prepare a letter of sympathy for the bereaved family. I'm not in the mood for writing."

"As you wish, my Lord. But this is not what I've wanted to get at. Forgive me for speaking openly, but you certainly realize that this wasn't an accident, don't you? Rumours are already spreading like a wildfire, suggesting that Baronet Marshall's death was the doing of the Neocount of Merentha, his brother. We both know that he had good reasons to exact revenge on his family."

For a few seconds, he felt like throwing a tantrum born from sheer despair, but thought better of it. His staunch valet didn't mean any harm. Aside from his missing lover, he was the one and only human being on Erna he had ever really trusted. Being in service of the royal family for nigh to five decades now, Arthur Drummond had watched over his first steps, had consoled him when he had landed flat on his nose and later kept a lookout when he had experienced his first sexual encounters with his father's groom in a quiet corner of the stables.

In his comforting presence, he didn't need to pretend that Tarrant had just been a cherished courtier. The domestic who was much more a father to him than his own had ever been had witnessed the blossoming of their relationship right from the beginning. Accompanying him on the fated visit to the Marshall estates during the first months of his reign, his valet had stood at his side when a grey-eyed, delicate boy resembling more a legendary silvan elf than a member of the human race had saved his life by performing an unheard-of miracle. He had heard what the healers had said about the gruelling cause for his new protégé's sudden collapse on their journey home. And later, when his lover had very nearly died in the dungeons of his father and he himself had been half out of his mind with grief, Drummond had shouldered the burden of the invalid's care without so much as a whiff of complaint. In spite of being as straight and conservative as they came, the man had never condemned them for their 'sodomy', had always accepted Gerald for what he was instead of considering him a freak of nature or worse like so many others, and Gannon was infinitely grateful for his unwavering support.

"I don't know what to believe anymore," he whispered. "They say that he snapped, that he vivisected his family and went straight to hell for his crimes. And to make matters worse, now his last surviving brother died a horrible death. The gossip-mongers will have a field day. But it couldn't have been him, could it? He's dead. _Has_ to be dead after all those years. And if he were still alive against all odds, I refuse to believe that he would be capable of committing a cold-blooded murder."

Drummond rested a hand on his trembling, velvet-clad shoulder. "Maybe we'll never know what truly came to pass, but I liked the Neocount," he said placatingly. "Without him, those rebels from the North might have succeeded in dethroning you back in 281. But he taught them manners. A formidable warrior he was, his Excellency, and a good man. The troops he led into battle would have died for him."

"And as a reward for saving my crown - and very likely my hide - I royally screwed it up and threw him to the wolves!" The king's harsh, bitter laugh was devoid of any genuine mirth whatsoever. "We can sugarcoat the truth to our heart's content, but I let him down, Arthur! I should have never listen to his bullshit about saving his most treasured creation from a schism. Very funny! Those bastards lost no time in striking his names from the books and demolishing each and every picture of him. May their bloody fingers rot off as a punishment for this outrageousness!"

"Don't, my Lord. You shouldn't torment yourself with self-reproach, nor should you rage against the church your partner held in such high esteem. It does you bad, and the Neocount wouldn't approve of it."

"You don't know what it's like," Gannon went on as if he hadn't heard a single word, hanging his head in shame. "There isn't a night I don't wake up from terrible nightmares, just to ask myself if everything could have been avoided if I hadn't allowed Gerald to retire to Merentha Castle. He sacrificed himself for the dream we both dreamed, but without him to fill it with life, it soon became utterly stale to me. You might not believe me, but I'd give the entire damned church and my kingdom as an extra if I could see his face once again."

"There's an ancient proverb," the old man replied very quietly. "Be careful what you wish for or you might just get it."

Registering the strange undertone in his valet's voice, Gannon looked up with a start. "You know something, Arthur. Out with it!" he commanded, every inch a king at a moment's notice.

"I _know_ nothing, my Lord. But there are very unsettling news regarding the Forest of Brocéliande about twenty miles away from the port of Merentha. You went deerstalking there once while visiting the Neocount, remember?"

As if he could ever forget this particular visit. They had been separated for several weeks, and within the castle walls it hadn't been altogether advisable to celebrate their reunion in the manner they both had been envisioning. But the woods had been lovely, dark and deep and the forest soil so very soft beneath them. For once, Gerald hadn't minded getting dirty. Rolling around on a bed made of the first fallen leaves of autumn for hours, they had caught up on everything they had missed, and when they had finally been able to let go of each other, dusk had already fallen. But safely cradled in the bliss of loving and being loved in return, he had feared neither the terror of the night nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness.

Considering that Drummond averted his eyes and cleared his throat, something about his train of thoughts must have reflected on his face, let alone having a rather inspirational effect on certain body parts located a bit further southwards. "It's alright, old friend," Gannon said with a faint smile. "Don't pay attention to a dirty old man dwelling on sweet reminiscences of his past. Gerald truly was one of a kind in every respect of the word. But now tell me what's going on in the Forest of Brocéliande."

"It seems that the bloodsucking fiend which caused a lot of problems in the last few years has returned to the area. But this time, it's worse than ever. Entire families have been slaughtered in the settlements nearby, woodcutter camps been wiped out to the last man. From what I've heard, the demon usually leaves no survivors. Those of its victims it doesn't suck dry to the last drop are torn limb from limb. If this goes on, the first wave of refugees will soon arrive in Jaggonath."

"So we need to put a stop to its activities at long last. Moffat can round up a posse first thing in the morning. It should be a piece of cake for him to..."

"My Lord, there's more to it." The domestic's voice was so very grave that Gannon's guts twisted into a tight knot of apprehension. "I should have told you before, but I... I simply didn't have the heart to do so. You've already suffered enough."

"Never mind, Arthur. Just spill the beans and don't keep me in suspense any longer."

Drummond drew a deep breath. "To all appearances, there's indeed always an exception to the rule", he muttered miserably. "One man survived the last massacre. A master carpenter from Merentha. From what I could gather, he and a few of his colleagues were on their way to Jaggonath in order to attend the annual meeting of their guild. I don't know what went wrong, but nightfall caught them by surprise out in the open, close to the borders of Brocéliande, and they decided to make camp instead of stumbling about in the darkness. It goes without saying that they stationed a sentry, but it didn't do them any good. Mer Myers only lived to talk about it because the... the monster which had already pounced on him was banished by the rising sun."

Mer Myers. Although he couldn't lay a finger on it yet, the name struck a chord with him. "How do you know about all this?" he asked somewhat bewildered. "And why on Earth and Erna does it bother you so much? You're white as a sheet, Arthur. Of course it's very unfortunate that the men were killed, but demonic attacks occur every day."

"Concerning your first question: I know because I've visited the carpenter at the hospital today. Forgive me for my highhandedness, my Lord."

Gannon blinked. "He's here? In Jaggonath? But why didn't they transport him back to Merentha? It's a lot closer to Brocéliande, I dare say. And why the heck did you pay him a visit?"

"For the same reason the travellers who found him decided to bring him here. Mer Myers insisted that he needed an audience with the king. With you. Learning that the man in question is the very same artisan who used to be in charge of the wainscoting of the great hall in Merentha Castle, and that he had a rather disturbing story to tell, I deemed it better to talk to him beforehand. To see how the land lay, so to say. I wish I hadn't. The poor devil was still half-crazed with terror, and understandably so. I've never seen anything like the scratches on his chest, and I don't want to meet the creature whose claws inflicted them. Tore the flesh right off his ribs. But he was lucid enough to give me a description of his assailant."

"Go on." Dreading what was to come, Gannon was barely able to move his numb lips.

His pale blue eyes glistening suspiciously, the old man approached him and clasped his hands. "You've always been the son to me I've never had," Drummond said, his voice shaking with emotion. "For this reason alone, I wanted to spare you the truth. But now I can't keep quiet any longer. There are some... details that don't match. But as much as I wish otherwise, Mer Myers left no doubt that he recognized his former employer, the Neocount of Merentha."

"Details? What details?"

"The colour of the creature's eyes, for example. They were black, not grey. Completely black. And the teeth. According to our eyewitness, they bore no resemblance to a human denture whatsoever. But of course, the lightning conditions were pretty bad at that time, so we can't know for sure."

"So maybe it wasn't Gerald at all but a demonling, Arthur. A wraith spawned by the imagination of whatever idiot foolish enough to believe that..."

"Gannon." his valet using his given name, an honour just to be used in a very private setting that he had solely bestowed on him and his lover, silenced him. "A wraith wouldn't have worn this."

Drummond pulled a delicate gold chain out of his waist pocket, and recognizing the golden, blood-splattered disc dangling from it, the king wished the ground would open up under him and swallow him whole. It was the Earth. Well aware of Gerald's fascination with their mother planet, he himself had ordered the amulet from the finest goldsmith in Jaggonath. Destined as a surprise for the adept's thirtieth birthday, it had become a farewell gift instead, handed out on the very morning Tarrant had set out for his domain for the very last time.

"How...? Where...?" Try as he might, he couldn't force something even halfway coherent through his constricted throat.

"Fighting for his life, Myers ripped the necklace from his attacker's throat. It was still in his hand when he regained consciousness. I'm so sorry."

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. But then he felt the poisonous snake called blind rage rearing up in the darkest corner of his soul, baring its fangs in preparation for the lethal attack. Suddenly beyond all reason, Gannon jumped to his feet, a red mist clouding his eyesight. "This isn't true! It mustn't be true," he thundered against his better judgement. "It's a trick. Malicious falsehood. Can't even you let him rest in peace, man? I wouldn't have expected that from you."

"But my Lord! I assure you that..."

"Shut up! I won't have any more lies. Consider yourself dismissed, Drummond. You have my permission to leave the castle at once. And now get out of my sight!"

As his valet didn't budge an inch but just stared at him with huge, sad eyes, something inside him snapped. "Have you gone deaf, you old fool?" he yelled at the top of his voice. "How can you dare to disobey my orders? FUCK OFF!"

Teetering on the brink of the abyss, he was utterly oblivious to the fact that everybody within earshot had to be aware of his temperamental outburst by now. His inner demon howled in anger, urged him to find an outlet for the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and all he could do was restricting his destructive impulses on the inanimate objects in convenient reach instead of doing something he might regret later.

A single sweep of his arm sent his ink pot and the papers he had brooded over what felt like an eternity ago flying all over the place, but it wasn't enough. Not by a long shot. Screaming like a man possessed, he picked up the nearest chair and shattered it against the wall. The sound of splintering wood was music in his ears, and he repeated the experience without paying any regard whatsoever to Drummond's desperate attempts to calm him down. Finally running out of seating-accommodations, he turned to ripping the bookcases off the walls with his bare hands, but still the indwelling demon of wrath demanded more. At six feet one inch and weighing roundabout a hundred and eighty rather muscular pounds, Gannon was no weakling. But without the miraculous strength lent by the foul, misshapen fruits of temporary madness, he would have never been able to lift his heavy novebony desk, let alone throwing it halfway across the chamber.

When he came to his senses again, he was crouching in a corner of his ravaged study, most of his fingernails broken and his hands raw and bloody. Drummond's slender arms were around his shoulders, anchoring him in a world which had lost every appeal to him. "Oh God, Arthur, I don't know what has come over me," he apologized for his hysterical fit. "The appalling things I've said to you... can you ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, my Lord. It was the shock. You don't have to feel bad about it."

Still trembling in every limb, Gannon fought to regain at least a semblance of self-control. "To be honest, it wasn't that much of a shock. Not really," he whispered dejectedly. "I tried to be in denial for as long as possible, but a part of me has always known that something more horrendous than mere death ripped him from my side. I've never talked about it before. Not even to you, my friend. But on the eve of the Neocountess' burial, I thought I saw someone hiding under the alteroak trees in the castle grounds. A man. Tall, pale as death and his silver eyes glittering like diamonds. But when I investigated the place, he was already gone. Just left a piece of silk behind. Midnight blue, Gerald's favourite colour, as you very well know."

"But how can this be possible? His Excellency was a mortal man, not a faeborn vampire. What power on Erna could have transformed him into a demon? And why?"

"I don't have a clue. But I remember a conversation I had with him once. He said something about the planet favouring sacrifice and that almost everything could be had if you were willing to pay the price for it. I'd say killing your own family was a hell of a price. Maybe he paid it in the hope of cheating death and gaining immortality. Considering his strange behaviour after his heart attack, I wouldn't put it beyond him."

Drummond shuddered. "May God have mercy on his soul. But what now? You surely aren't planning on sending a posse after him, are you?"

Gannon's handsome features hardened. "And what would you advise me to do?" he choked out between gritted teeth. "Let the matter rest? Allow him to run rampage under the cover of darkness, killing dozens of my subjects? Hundreds? I love Gerald and will continue doing so until my last breath. But I'd rather drive a stake through his heart myself if that's what has to be done to give him peace than enduring the thought that he's condemned to lead such a ghastly unlife. It would drive me to distraction. Hence, tomorrow morning I'm going to send Moffat and a handful of his most trustworthy men to the Forest of Brocéliande, disguised as woodcutters. With me to keep them company. Incognito, of course."

On hearing about his king's plan, Drummond very nearly choked on his own breath. "I don't want to be disrespectful, but you can't be serious," he spluttered. "This could be dangerous. Very dangerous. If the Neocount has truly turned into a vampire... it makes me shiver just to think about it. Please, my Lord, don't do this to yourself. Nothing good can come out of it."

"But I have no choice. What would you do if the 'monster' were someone you loved? If it were your king, for example? Would you ask for my severed head on a platter outright? No, Arthur. I don't doubt that Moffat can finish the job on his own. But I need to be there, to see with my own eyes. Maybe there's still a possibility to redeem Gerald. And if not, if it comes to the worst, I'd like to... to deal with him myself. I owe him this. May the God of our faith whom he served for so many years have mercy on both our souls."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Sitting bolt upright, his shaking hands twisted into his sleeping bag, Gannon cringed at the blood-curdling screams of agony ringing out outside their tent. When they had set off to their destination, their spirits boosted by the bright rays of the midday sun, his impromptu plan had sounded quite promising. But awaking from a bad dream just to find that reality was very likely considerably worse than every horror vision his mind could conjure, he was forced to reconsider his wisdom.

At first, everything had gone well. On their road to Brocéliande, they had encountered nothing more adverse than a few showers of spring rain and sodden country roads. Even their journey into the depths of the forest itself had been utterly uneventful until they had finally reached a deserted lumber camp. There, they had made themselves at home, Arthur Drummond who had flatly refused to let him plunge into disaster on his own acting as their cook.

The very man was cowering right at his side now, panting in sheer, unadulterated terror. Gannon couldn't really hold it against him. In his younger days at the end of the dark ages, he had fought many a battle, and nobody could call him a coward. But listening to hell unleashed in the deep of night was an altogether different kettle of fish.

After pulling his sword from its scabbard very carefully in order to avoid any treacherous noise and unfastening the tent flap, he peeked out of their canvas accommodation. What he could see in the light of the torches they had left burning made his blood run cold with dread. It was a carnage. Body parts of humans and unhorses alike were littering the clearing, and the tents and the equipment the woodcutters had abandoned for good reason were drenched in blood.

Captain Moffat lay no more than ten feet away, a shadowy shape crouching over him like a spectre out of the abysses wherein the nightmares dwelt. The man was still stirring faintly, and Gannon made his decision without thinking twice. His bodyguards had come to this dismal place by this command. He was responsible for them, and he couldn't just sit back and do nothing while they were being ripped to pieces. Not to mention that as soon as the demon was finished with devouring its current victim, it would very likely be on the lookout for an expansion of his menu.

Plucking up courage, he straightened and stepped outside, his fervently praying valet hot on his heels. The screams had died down by now, and the night was eerily quiet other than for a low sucking noise which made his stomach turn with revulsion. Swallowing down a mouthful of bile, he forced his paralyzed limbs to move, but he hadn't come very far when the thing in the clearing suddenly raised its head from the throat of its prey with a bestial snarl bearing no resemblance whatsoever to a sound a human throat could produce. Ever so slowly, it turned towards him and stared at him with eyes as lightless as a true night, and he forgot how to breathe.

After living beyond the grace of God for nigh to five years, there wasn't much left of the ever so fastidious Neocount of Merentha. His matted hair was caked with dirt, his delicate features almost unrecognizable under layers of blood and the earth he had buried himself in to escape the lethal sunlight, and his formerly fine clothes were only rags which barely served to cover his modesty. But drawn to him by a sense much more astute than mere seeing, Gannon recognized him nonetheless.

His mind reeling, he staggered forward without even realizing that he was moving and stretched out a trembling hand, but was stopped dead in his tracks when his vis-à-vis bared his fangs and hissed at him. Behind his broad back Drummond tugged at his cloak, implored him to run for his life and leave him behind, but faced with the horror of his worst fears coming true, he paid no attention to his valet's desperate pleads. "Gerald, it's me, Gannon," he whispered, hot tears running down his face. "Don't you know me anymore?"

The being which had once been Gerald Tarrant tensed up and hissed again, but didn't attack. Its head tilted slightly sidewards, it gazed at him in a grisly parody of the rapt attention the adept had usually reserved for an intriguing scientific problem in his mortal days. The memory was almost more than Gannon could bear, and he thought of his sword, a quick death and the blessed oblivion which would follow this act of utter despair. But he couldn't abandon his mate to his terrible fate without having tried everything in his power. Running purely on instinct, he unearthed the amulet Myers had captured from his pocket and held it up by its chain.

Swinging gently back and forth like a pendulum, the golden disk glittered in the torchlight, and the black windows to hell where human eyes should have been followed its every move. The king held his breath as a hint of awareness was stirring in them, a sense of self which hadn't been there before, and the abnormally dilated pupils were contracting until a ring of pale grey was visible around them. "It's me, beloved," he repeated, praying with all his heart that he could somehow make it through to the human soul hopefully still harboured inside a body which had been transformed into something far beyond the mortal plane. "Do you know this necklace? It's yours. I gave it to you as a present. The Earth, Gerald. Our mother planet. Oh please remember and come back to me."

Long, curved claws retracted from the corpse they had been digging into with a vengeance, morphed into dirty but very human fingernails in the blink of an eye, and then slender digits reached for the piece of jewellery and closed around it in a rather possessive fashion. Somewhat heartened by this small success, he let go of it and gently caressed the back of the adept's hand instead. The pale, blood-spattered flesh radiated an unearthly cold which threatened to freeze the marrow in his bones, but overjoyed at being able to touch his lover for the first time in years, he couldn't have cared less.

"Gannon."

It was just a single word, a hoarse rasp produced by vocal chords long weaned from human speech, but to the addressee it was the sweetest music imaginable. "Yes, beloved. I'm here. Now everything is going to be alright. Whatever has been done to you, we'll find a way to reverse it. I won't let you down ever again."

Registering the heartbreaking expression of anguish passing over the face so very dear to him, the king's heart clenched painfully inside his chest. Without wasting much thought on the possible consequences of his advance, he went down on his knees and pulled the man he had missed like a lost limb for so many months into his arms. For a few seconds, Gerald yielded to his embrace, nestled up to him as he had been wont to in far happier times. But then he stiffened and drew back. "Thirsty," he breathed.

Looking at him, Gannon couldn't help but shuddering. All traces of humanity were extinguished from the adept's eyes now. Blazing like a black fire kindled by the essence of night itself, they were fixed on a spot at the crook of his neck, the very spot where the large blood vessels were running right underneath a thin layer of skin. At this very moment, realization hit him with the force of a quake, and his futile hopes for the future crumbled into dust. From where Tarrant had gone, there was no way back. He would never rise an eyebrow in sardonic amusement again while making fun of those members of the royal court whose incompetence was only rivalled by their pompousness, nor would he moan his name in the throes of passion. The light of his life had plunged into darkness for all eternity and had left nothing behind than an emotional desert bereft of any joy.

Once again, Gannon thought of ways and means to put him out of his misery. A stake through the heart, a sharp blade for severing the slender neck he had so often kissed, and then the purging fire just to make sure that no however faint spark of unlife had survived. The only problem was that he couldn't harm what had become of his lover any more than he could have stopped breathing on his own account. But he wished he could have done the latter, wished it so very much. As far as he was concerned, the adept didn't have to go hungry that night. Death couldn't come quickly enough for him. "Is this everything you want from me?" he sobbed out. "My blood? You can have it, Gerald. Take what you need and kill me. I don't give a damn anymore."

Still staring at his throat as if in a trance, Tarrant slowly bent closer, magnetically drawn to the object of his desire by a force exceeding even the most burning mortal desire by far. A chill mouth came to rest on Gannon's sweaty skin, thin lips parted with a low, wistful sigh, and at the next moment, he felt the pressure of teeth so much sharper than a living man's could have ever been. Whispering a last prayer for their salvation, he put his fate in God's hand. But the piercing pain he had expected didn't come. Confused, he opened his eyes just to catch a glimpse of a tall frame moving with utterly inhuman speed and fluency in his peripheral vision. Then there was just the moaning of the night wind in the trees and the lonely cry of a winged nocturnal predator. Gerald was gone, had left no trace of his existence behind other than the shredded mortal remains of his victims and a broken heart.

In a blink, the king was on his feet, dead set on following him to the end of the world if need be. But Arthur Drummond held him back, clinging to him with amazing strength for a man so old and frail. "Don't, my Lord. Let him go," he said beseechingly. "His Excellency had the resolve to do what's best for both of you. May God reward him for this act of love. Because that's exactly what it was all about, or he would have never spared you in the state he was in. I hope you can find comfort in this truth. And now you need some rest. Soon it will be dawn, and it's a long way back to civilization by foot."

Feeling absolutely shattered, Gannon allowed his valet to lead him to their bivouac and tuck him in as if he were still five years old instead of forty-three. But he didn't get a wink of sleep in those darkest hours before sunrise. Burying his face in the crook of his arm in order to muffle his sobs, he cried his heart out until he had no more tears to shed.


End file.
